Chapter 21 Danni
DANNI
The moment I opened my eyes, I wasn’t sure if any of it had been real.
For a second, I just lay there, curled on my side, my nightgown bunched around my hips, the sheets twisted around me.
The morning light filtered through the old lace curtains, turning the edges of the room to soft gold.
My heart was still pounding faintly, like an echo of something half-remembered.
I reached down between my thighs and felt the lingering ache, the delicious soreness and damp heat that had nothing to do with the warmth of the quilt.
My face flushed as I remembered the night before.
God. Had I dreamed it?
Shadow—my monster. Was he truly real?
I rolled onto my back and pressed my palm against my chest, right over my heart.
I could still feel the weight of his heavy, muscular arms around me…
the velvet brush of his fur…the deep rumble of his voice as he told me I was beautiful.
The way he touched me so reverently, like I was something rare and precious.
The way he made me come so hard.
My cheeks grew even hotter. If it was a dream, it was the most vivid one I'd ever had. But somehow, I didn’t think it was.
I sat up slowly and peeked under the bed, half-hoping, half-expecting to see the glint of golden eyes glowing in the darkness.
Nothing. Just shadows.
Still, I felt something—a presence. Like the air under the bed was just a bit thicker…as bit warmer…charged with static electricity.
“Well,” I murmured, brushing my fingers across the cool wood floor. “Maybe you only come out at night.”
I got up and stretched, feeling better than I had in ages. I didn’t have the heavy feeling of dread I’d been waking up with for the past three years. Instead, I felt almost young again—refreshed and renewed and ready to greet the day.
Another sweater waited for me draped neatly over the old armchair in the corner—a lavender one this time, with delicate cables I remembered knitting years ago.
Yoga pants were folded on the chair’s seat, soft and warm.
And by the bed, a pair of plush slippers I’d never seen before, in a rich plum color, embroidered with little moons and stars.
I tried them on—they were just my size.
“Thank you,” I said to the cottage.
No reply, of course. But that didn’t stop the smile from blooming on my face.
The cottage was looking after me—that was the only way to describe it. It was like having Grandma here again, fussing over me in her quiet way, always making sure I had what I needed before I even knew I needed it.
The moment I walked into the living room, the hearth flared to life, flames crackling merrily over the logs stacked neatly in the grate. Warmth spilled out into the room, chasing away the Autumn chill. The smell of smoke and old wood and something faintly cinnamony drifted into the air.
I padded into the kitchen, and as if on cue, the teakettle on the stove let out a low whistle.
A china teacup waited on the counter—the same rose-patterned ones Grandma always used for special occasions. A teabag was already nestled inside.
The warmth in my chest grew. It was so nice to be cared for like a child again, with a loving adult hovering to be sure I had whatever I wanted or needed. I could definitely get used to this.
I opened the oven, drawn by the smell, and sure enough, a fresh loaf of bread was baking inside. Right on cue, the old-fashioned timer dinged.
I found Grandma’s old sunflower potholders and took the bread out carefully, placing it on a cutting board and inhaling the hot, yeasty steam rising into my face.
God, it smelled heavenly. I shouldn’t eat so much bread, not with my metabolism slowing down, but it was hard to care in a place like this.
Maybe calories didn’t count in an enchanted cottage—at least, I decided to pretend they didn’t.
Still, I would need more to live on than just fresh baked bread.
“This is amazing,” I said out loud, glancing toward the rafters, “but do you think I could have some eggs to go with it?”
There was no reply—I hadn’t really expected one. Besides, this was just a little experiment.
I opened the fridge. Nothing had changed. There was the butter, milk, American cheese, and the homemade, strawberry jam. No eggs, though.
I opened the cupboards and saw more cans of Tomato soup and some Ritz crackers—my favorite when I was a kid. Still no eggs—not that I’d really expected to find them in the cupboard, but I’d wanted to be sure.
“Hmm.” I leaned against the counter, thinking. The cottage seemed to be supplying me with my favorite foods from when I was a child—the things that Grandma had made for me. But it appeared that I couldn’t just wish out loud for something and expect for it to appear.
It made sense, in a weird way. This place was full of childhood comforts. But maybe there were limits to its magic.
Still, I wasn’t about to complain. I sliced up the bread and slid it into the old toaster—one of those chrome ones with a big lever and chunky buttons.
I used to love playing with the one at Grandma’s, pretending I was a 1950s housewife from one of those old black and white TV shows she loved to have me watch with her.
Leave it to Beaver and My Three Sons were her favorites.
The toast popped up perfectly golden, and I buttered it, then added a generous scoop of strawberry jam. I sat at the kitchen table and wrapped my hands around the steaming cup of chamomile tea. It tasted just like I remembered…warm, sweet, and comforting.
But as I ate, reality crept back in.
I didn’t have any money.
Not here and not back in the real world. Back home the mortgage was due and I couldn’t pay it. I could move here, I supposed—the cottage was mine. But I couldn’t live indefinitely on magically replenishing bread and childhood memories. Even in a magical town, I needed a way to make a living.
“This isn’t sustainable,” I said to the empty kitchen. “Not unless I find a way to earn some money.”
But how? What could I even do?
My eyes wandered to the knitting basket sitting by the couch in the living room. The half-finished shawl I’d started over three years ago was draped invitingly over the arm of the couch as though the cottage wanted me to finish it. Maybe…
The half-formed thought was interrupted by a knock at the front door.
Startled, I glanced at the clock on the stove—it was nearly ten in the morning—time for Harmony’s knitting lesson.
I decided to put the worry on pause and enjoy some time with my new friend. I stood and brushed crumbs from my sweater. Whatever happened later, at least this morning, I had something to look forward to.
Walking through the living room, I opened the front door with a smile.